The Last Time I Reached

The phone went silent—words lost somewhere

between the walls and my tired hands.

I sat, the cracked cup on the sill beside me

half-full of cold and unanswered hope.

I used to stretch across the emptiness,

patch the fractures with my voice, my breath.

But yesterday the air held its own weight—

I let the silence be heavier than my reach.

The rims stained with old coffee,

abandoned like my will to fix the unfixable.

You broke and I stopped trying to pick up

all the pieces that didn’t want me,

didn’t want holding.